


Going Home

by bluebeholder



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, First Kiss, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Home, M/M, Rebuilding Erebor, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 10:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17744291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Everyone, by a stroke of real luck, survived the Battle of Five Armies. Bilbo helps to rebuild Erebor, while waiting for Thorin to recover from his wounds. Hobbit help is, it seems, just what the dwarves need: after all, hobbits know better than any how to make a place into a home.And when Thorin finally wakes up, there's a surprise waiting for Bilbo.





	Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I've sunk deep into this fandom and I'm not coming out. I'm extremely happy to be here! I've been a bagginshield shipper since the first movie and a Hobbit/LoTR fan for years before that. I never wrote fic before because nothing was ever satisfying, but my writing is finally at a level where I can write stories in a tone and style I'm happy with. That's why I'm a little late to the fandom.
> 
> Then again, an author is never late. They always arrive exactly when they intend to. ;)

_“Look, I know you doubt me, I know you always have. And you're right. I often think of Bag End. I miss my books. And my armchair. And my garden. See, that's where I belong. That's home. That's why I came back, 'cause you don't have one. A home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.”_

_“Farewell, Master Burglar. Go back to your books…and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow. If more people valued home…above gold…this world would be a merrier place.”_

 

All is still mayhem.

The protection of Erebor is led by the dwarves of the Iron Hills. Dain has guaranteed that the kingdom under the mountain, and all its treasures, will be safe. At the moment, to Bilbo’s eyes, it seems that this guardianship may be unnecessary. In honor of the valor and sacrifice of the dwarves, and having learned something of the great cost of greed, the elves and men have courteously withdrawn any claim to wealth until such time as the rightful King Under The Mountain takes his throne again.

And that throne he shall take: Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, lives.

Not only that: Fili and Kili, though they were grievously wounded in the battle, are on the mend at last. The elves have—at, Bilbo believes, a spot of awakened mercy in their king’s cold heart—seen to it that the princes will live. Their skill in the healing arts is without peer. Even the dwarves have acknowledged that Fili and Kili would have died without the elves’ intervention.

But Thorin, injured just as badly if not worse, refuses to have the elves attend to him. He’s asleep or delirious most of the time, but when he’s awake and clear-minded for even a brief moment he makes no secret of his remaining fury with the elves. Indeed, Balin and Gandalf only barely manage to prevent the outbreak of more fighting when the Elvenking takes umbrage at Thorin’s harsh words.

“He’ll get past it when he’s well again,” Balin says sensibly. “After all, he’ll have to see sense when he realizes how well you’ve cared for his nephews.”

This, Bilbo thinks, would be true of a Thorin that he once knew. The Thorin he had seen in Erebor, sick with lust for gold, lost in a madness not wholly of his own making, would not be able to see sense. It’s too soon to say which Thorin they’ll have, when all is said and done. Thus far, he’s barely been able to wake long enough to take a sip of tea or broth, to refuse care from the elves, and to ask feverishly of his company’s safety.

The shock to Bilbo comes one night over a spare dinner of lean hare and gritty, dark bread, when Bofur informs him quietly that today, Thorin asked for Bilbo.

“He did?” Bilbo asks, setting down his knife and looking at Bofur in mild alarm. “How do you know? I thought none of us were permitted to see him.”

“I heard it from Ori, who heard it from Dwalin,” Bofur says.

“What happened?” Bilbo asks.

“It was a sight, apparently,” Bofur says. “He woke up fighting, shouting for you. Almost hit a healer in the nose, tore stitches…they got him back down so he wouldn’t hurt himself worse, and when he was out again there was a debate about whether to get you. Balin was in favor, but Dwalin thought it wise that you two see each other again when he’s got a…clearer mind.”

“Dwalin,” Bilbo says, thinking of shouted threats and fifty-foot drops and Arkenstones, “has the _right bloody idea_.”

Still, that night, Bilbo can’t help but want to go to Thorin’s side and…see what happens.

He has to wait, all the same. They say that Thorin’s mind is clearing, day by day, as he heals. Bilbo has little time to think of him, though, when there is so much else to do. Erebor is nearly uninhabitable after years of neglect and damage by the dragon; the dwarves, therefore, are mostly encamped in a tent city just within and outside the Front Gate.

A few small bands of dwarves from the Blue Mountains have arrived, hearing the news. These first brave pioneers, mostly young, need to be settled into the way things are done thus far in Erebor. The men of Lake Town need aid, and Dain has graciously offered the labor of some of his dwarves to help build shelters on the shore of the lake and repair the boats that saved the population.

Bilbo, when he’s not running after Balin and Gandalf, observing and offering his advice and common sense to various proceedings, is fully occupied with the matter of gardens. It’s a good climate for winter growing, warm enough that the ground hasn’t frozen even in late November. More importantly, the farms that fed Lake Town are, of course, established on the _shores_ of the lake. Smaug’s wrath never struck them, and they were far enough from the battlefield to avoid the worst of the damage.

Livestock survive, and the hearty winter crops are ripening. A crop of cabbage, endive, and winter squash—bolstered by the stores of root vegetables kept in storehouses on shore—is ready for harvest, along with other hardy vegetables. Bilbo convinces Dain to loan some of his men as labor for the harvest, and promises in addition part of his share of the treasure to the farmers inconvenienced by the trade. It’s not a perfect trade, but it is enough.

In addition, Bilbo busies himself with personal projects. It takes some doing, but he manages to buy buttons off a housewife and brings them back to the Company, so he can put (mismatched) buttons on all the pieces of clothing left without them after their long journey. In the process, holes are darned, elbows are patched, and within a few days the Company begins to look a little less battered.

Slowly, on scraps of paper, he begins to collect stories of the Quest, stories that can be shared among the dwarves—not only of the Company, but _all_ of them, all the dwarves from the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains alike. Bilbo reads them aloud, if he’s written them down, or tells them on the spot from memory and writes them down later. He’s a curiosity, and though some dwarves are disbelieving, his role in Smaug’s defeat and his actions on Ravenhill are enough to lend him some credibility. He tells stories of bravery of the sons of Durin, the wonders of their travels, of the valor of the Company. Bilbo spins tales that, he thinks, might raise the esteem of the Company and the King Under The Mountain in the eyes of the dwarves of the Iron Hills. Judging by Balin’s quiet, nonspecific thanks one evening, it appears to be working.

He promises payment to some of the farmers out of more of his share of the treasure, and as a result receives sour cream, vinegar, black pepper, and horseradish root from which to make a simple horseradish sauce. It’s a ridiculously small luxury, but presenting it to the Company over dinner one night results in a rousing cheer and boosted morale. Even the toughest hare or oldest salt pork tastes better with it, and when word gets out, Bilbo is inundated by requests and payment to buy the necessary ingredients. Soon enough, there is horseradish sauce enough for every dwarf to have at least a little. It increases Bilbo’s popularity an astounding amount, but better than popularity is the smile Bilbo sees every time he manages to make something just a little better.

Whenever he thinks of the ridiculousness of all this, of his small quests among such chaos, Bilbo can’t help but remind himself of Thorin’s words: “If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place.” Bilbo is certainly not listening to any of the rest of Thorin’s speech—he is not going back to the Shire, not yet, not when his friends remain here. But he can do what he promised to do so long ago, when they escaped the goblin mines.

The dwarves have lost their home, and Bilbo will help them take it back if he can.

Now the dragon is dead, defeated, and the war is over, but no one can yet call Erebor home. Bilbo isn’t planning to let that stand. After all, if there is one thing hobbits know, it is how to make a home. Home is in the eating of good food and telling stories by warm fires. Home is in the people at the table and in the listeners of the stories. Home is in the little things and it is these which Bilbo can bring to the dwarves. It’s in neatly-mended jackets and horseradish sauce at dinnertime and a comic story of the bold warrior Dwalin-son-of-Fundin spinning down a river in a barrel. They may be living yet in tents as the cold winter settles on the Lonely Mountain, but that is no reason that these ancient halls can’t become a _home_.

At last the evening comes, a little more than three weeks after the battle, that Thorin asks for Bilbo and is judged to be in a right enough mind for it to be a good idea. Nori brings the message; according to him, Thorin has been awake for hours now, and is in a fairly good humor.

Bilbo goes.

He pauses before the entrance, nervously straightening his coat and smoothing down his waistcoat (and the mithril shirt beneath it, which he hasn’t been able to make himself take off). There are guards at the door, but they don’t remark on Bilbo’s presence or try to bar the way as he steps inside. When the flaps fall behind him, the heavy fabric muffles any sound from outside; whatever passes between them, so long as they do not shout, will be reasonably private.

Thorin is on a cot in the center of the tent, covered to the waist in blankets against the late-November chill; though he lacks a shirt, two braziers burn steadily to keep the space warm. The last time Bilbo saw Thorin, his skin was gray and his eyes were dull as death. Now he has a healthy color and his eyes flash vividly when he sees Bilbo. He’s still heavily bandaged and the smaller scrapes on his face and arms are yet to heal. But his hair has been braided, he sits upright and alert, and he looks for all intents like _Thorin_ again.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin says. His voice, a bit hoarse from war-cries and lack of use, has its old power back. It’s no longer the whisper that it was when he spoke what should have been his farewell.

Bilbo’s heart sinks a bit. So they’re back to formality, then. But he puts on a cheerful face as he approaches the bedside, and it is almost entirely genuine. After all, angry or not, Thorin is alive. How can Bilbo begrudge anything? “I thought you’d never wake up,” he says, and manages somehow to avoid it sounding like he expected Thorin to die. “It’s not as if you ever sleep late in the morning!”

“It is not,” Thorin says.

For a long moment, they just look at each other.

Bilbo is unsure of what to say. At this moment, they’re watching each other through a year of unspoken words and shared moments of feeling. This gaze of Thorin’s is the same gaze Bilbo held outside the goblin mines, on the Carrock, in the dungeons of the Elvenking, when he vouched for Thorin in Lake Town, when he first returned triumphant from Smaug’s hoard…

It’s the same gaze Bilbo saw through a coat of mithril held between them.

And over an acorn, sitting in Bilbo’s pocket.

“I owe you another great debt.”

“What?” Bilbo is startled by the statement. He feels mildly crazed, eyes wide, as he asks, “What in the world do you owe me _now_?”

“I’m told you remained with me on Ravenhill even when you thought me dead,” Thorin says. His voice is remarkably steady. “The last thing I remember hearing is your voice.”

Bilbo swallows through a dry throat. “I was saying your name rather a lot,” he says.

“You also told me the Eagles were coming,” Thorin says.

“I did, didn’t I?” Bilbo thinks of Thorin, cold and dead on the ice, and shudders.

“But I owe you a debt for more than that,” Thorin says. “I owe you for…helping me free of the gold-sickness.” He holds up a hand to stop Bilbo from interrupting. “I could have woken again in the throes of lust for gold, for the Arkenstone, but I did not. I woke thinking of my kin, my home, my…”

He stops there, but the way his gazes rests heavy on Bilbo makes the hobbit shiver.

“You always had very strong will,” Bilbo says, aiming for cheerful and missing the mark entirely as he lands in melancholy.

“A will of which you reminded me,” Thorin says.

Bilbo manages to avoid arguing for a grand total of ten seconds. Then he bursts out, “Thorin Oakenshield, you are utterly ridiculous. I have full faith you would have snapped out of it yourself, had you only had more time to think!”

“I have had a _great_ deal of time to think,” Thorin says. He looks away. “I cannot—will not—take back the words I spoke on Ravenhill. Even in the depths of madness, you were a true friend. Where my own kin would not question my word, you tried to reason with me. You reminded me that we had finished our Quest, that I had returned to my home…one which I have, again, abandoned.”

“You are home, Thorin,” Bilbo says. Impulsively, he reaches out to take one of Thorin’s hands. “I’ve seen what’s happening. When you can get up again, you’ll see how hard they’re all working to make Erebor into the magnificent place it was, to turn it into a home worthy of the sons of Durin!”

Thorin’s hand tightens around Bilbo’s. “I hear,” he says, “that a certain hobbit has been working equally hard, and when he was offered the chance to return to his own home, he refused.”

“I can’t and won’t take back the words _I_ spoke on Ravenhill,” Bilbo says. “I’m glad to have shared in your perils, every one.”

“And I am glad you were there, Master Baggins,” Thorin says.

Bilbo shakes his head. “Just Bilbo,” he says.

“Am I that easily forgiven?”

“I’ve also had a great deal of time to think,” Bilbo says. He leans on the cot, unwilling to let go of Thorin’s hand. “You weren’t yourself, Thorin. I mean, it was you, of course, but you hadn’t really any control of the sickness, had you? And you’re making amends, you’ve overcome it.”

“In that you are mistaken,” Thorin says. “I can feel it with every mention of the Arkenstone or the treasure of Erebor. The jealousy, the rage…”

Bilbo clears his throat. “See here,” he says, “I’m quite sure that we’ll _all_ let you know if you ever slip back into bad habits again. So yes, you’re forgiven, so long as you keep in mind that I have no intention of being party to any more of what happened before the battle.”

Thorin’s faint smile is perhaps the most beautiful thing Bilbo has ever seen. His eyes light up, lines of worry and care falling away, and Bilbo is reminded of everything—of all the things he never had the chance to say to this ridiculous dwarf-king, of the feelings that have been building since Mirkwood, of just _why_ it hurt so badly when Thorin went mad.

“I’m very glad you’re alive, Thorin,” Bilbo says. His voice cracks. “More than I can begin to say.”

There are tears running down his cheeks, Bilbo notices distantly, and he scrubs at his face with the rough sleeve of his coat. How silly it is to stand here weeping with Thorin alive and well in front of him! But he can’t stop. He can only cling to Thorin’s hand and sob.

Thorin waits. Patient, solid, very alive Thorin, who’d waited for Bilbo outside the Lonely Mountain and in the Elvenking’s dungeons and on the front doorstep of Bag End all that time ago. Thorin has ever been the one running headlong into danger and having to wait for Bilbo to catch up, and Bilbo—

“I cannot say it’s not ironic, that I am forever waiting on you to come and rescue me,” Thorin says, cutting Bilbo off with an echo of his own thoughts.

“ _You_ can actually use a sword,” Bilbo says with a sniff, fumbling in his pocket for a knitted handkerchief Ori gave him and blowing his nose. “I’d think you’d have to rescue me.”

Thorin is _still_ smiling, drat the dwarf for making Bilbo’s heart pound like this. “I told Gandalf that I would not be responsible for your fate when you joined our Quest,” he says. “And yet you seem to have made yourself responsible for mine.”

“Someone had to,” Bilbo says crossly. He blows his nose again. “No one else seems to have the sense to say _no_ to you because you’re a king, which means they’re all lined up to jump the second you say the word, even if it means leaping straight into the jaws of death itself.”

Thorin squeezes Bilbo’s hand. “You did that too, Bilbo.” His soft voice makes Bilbo’s heart do something extremely painful. “Over and over through this whole quest, no matter the risks, even when I threatened to kill you.”

“I suppose I wanted to prove to you that I’m more than a grocer,” Bilbo says.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, with a shocking hesitance in his voice, “can you say with truth that this was your _only_ reason for your bravery on my behalf?”

Well.

“I can’t,” Bilbo says.

He’s not sure just what he expected to see on Thorin’s face when he looked up, but relief certainly wasn’t it. Thorin’s shoulders slump as if a weight’s been lifted from them and the tension around his eyes vanishes entirely. He takes a deep breath, and for the first time since Bilbo walked into this tent Thorin looks calm.

“It started as wanting to prove myself to you, of course,” Bilbo says. “You’ve always been very admirable. I won’t lie, the fact that you had actual table manners when you came to Bag End helped with that—” Thorin laughs there, a full laugh that pulls a real smile out of Bilbo. “—and you were a brilliant fighter and a magnificent person, like something out of a book, and I got a bit starry-eyed over the stories about you and the way you led the company and all. But you were also the kind of person who gets lost in the _Shire_ , of all places, and makes unwise decisions about where to camp, and is a little too self-important, and has a sense of humor which matches mine, and I suppose it all…piled up.”

Thorin shakes his head. “It started when you told a band of trolls I was riddled with parasites,” he says. Bilbo absolutely goggles at him. Thorin sighs. “That was the first time I found you anything more than a burden. I saw a spark in you that night. You acted alone, boldly, and then when the rest of us failed it was your quick thinking that saved us. I saw a person worthy of respect, in that moment. In Rivendell, you heard of the madness that lurked within me, and did not turn from me. And then you swore to help bring us home and saved me from Azog and kept on showing your bravery and loyalty and great heart, all the way to the Lonely Mountain. As you say, it all…piled up.”

Silence, except for the crackling of coals in the braziers, fills the tent. At last, Bilbo mops his eyes with his handkerchief again and says, “Perhaps when we tell people how all this began later, we can leave out the part about you falling tail over teakettle for me because I said you had parasites.”

This, in a really romantic tale, would be the moment for a passionate kiss.

But, at the moment, Thorin is still far too battered to do justice to a proper embrace, let alone a kiss. Furthermore Bilbo feels it would do damage to their collective dignity to have him climb into the cot to try anything at all. They settle, instead, for a long, long moment of holding hands, and a promise from Bilbo to come back tomorrow. Then Thorin shoos Bilbo out, because it’s nearly midnight, and they’ll both have a great deal of work to attend to tomorrow.

Bilbo gets halfway back to his own small tent when he is _ambushed_ by a small contingent of extremely anxious dwarves. Ten of them, to be exact, only two of whom have seen Thorin and none of whom have seen Bilbo and Thorin in the same place since the disaster at the Front Gate. For a moment, all is clamor until Bilbo manages to call some semblance of order, an accomplishment chiefly made by stepping very hard on Oin’s foot to shut him up.

Balin is the first to speak, brows furrowed with concern. “How did it go, laddie…?”

“All’s well,” Bilbo says, with a resolute nod. “Thorin is fully on the mend and just as stubborn as ever and we have forgiven each other entirely.”

Bofur sighs in audible relief. “That’s the best news I’ve had today.”

Dwalin rolls his eyes and flips a coin at Balin, who catches it and pockets it with a smile. “Did you _honestly_ have money on how that would go?” Bilbo asks.

“You’ve got to understand how bad we thought it would be,” Dwalin says.

Mutters of agreement come from all around. “I worried he’d finish what he started at the Front Gate,” Dori says. His face is solemn, elder-brother concern written all over him. Bilbo appreciates it.  

“We certainly did finish with that business,” Bilbo says. He puts his hand in his pocket, holds the acorn tight. “You don’t need to worry about the two of us anymore.”

A _look_ is shared through the Company. Dori’s brows rise to his hairline and Nori chortles with unabashed glee. Bombur merely folds his hands over his immense belly and smiles. Bifur says something barely audible that makes Gloin shake his head and smile. Oin looks at Balin and they shrug, as if at the folly of youngsters. Ori, not at all subtly, elbows Dwalin, who simply looks at the sky long-sufferingly.

It’s Bofur who claps Bilbo on the shoulder and says, “Wait on doing anything very _hard_ until our great King’s up and at it again, eh?”

As the Company roars with laughter, Bilbo can only stammer.

The next day finds Bilbo arriving at Thorin’s tent at the break of day right alongside Balin, Dwalin, and the others coming to see the King now that he’s well enough to hear reports and give his counsel and orders. They don’t exactly leap into each other’s arms—for one thing, Thorin is still bed-bound—but the smile Thorin gives him makes Bilbo’s heart turn upside-down. He takes a place right at Thorin’s side, staunchly ignoring the raised eyebrows from all the dwarves but Balin and Dwalin.

Of course he can’t stay forever; after a while, Bilbo bows out because there’s a garden plot to be weeded and Bifur’s coat needs its lining fixed. Moreover, he’s managed to sustain a starter for sourdough bread, adopted from one of the cooks in Dain’s army and carefully attended for the last three weeks, which has achieved readiness to be used in actual baking. Tonight they can anticipate something nicer than the rather flat, tasteless bread they’ve been eating since…well, it seems for nearly the entire year since leaving the Shire. Bilbo can’t deny being rather excited about that.

“I promise to bring you some, _King_ Thorin,” Bilbo says with a bright grin as he ducks out.

“I shall hold you to that, _Master Baggins_ ,” Thorin replies, smiling with impossibly starry eyes.

Bilbo distinctly hears Balin mutter to Dwalin, “They’re going to be insufferable.”

Dwalin replies, “You encouraged this. Don’t go crying to me now.”

The sourdough rye bread that Bilbo produces for dinner that evening, wholesome, light, and flavorful, is popular with the entire Company. After dark, when Bilbo manages to steal away long enough to reach Thorin, they end up devouring half a loaf of bread together while Bilbo answers all of Thorin’s questions about how things are progressing.

“Why are you bothering to ask _me_?” Bilbo asks, when the bread has long since vanished. “You have Balin and Gandalf and Dain—you don’t need a simple hobbit!”

“None of them have your eyes,” Thorin says. Bilbo is reasonably sure that Thorin is referring to his powers of observation and his unique perspective as a hobbit, but then again Thorin is looking directly into Bilbo’s face the whole time and might well be talking about Bilbo’s _actual eyes_. One can never tell, really, what’s happening when dealing with Thorin Oakenshield.

After the fifth day of this same sort of thing, Bilbo expects that rumors will be getting out. People _will_ ask the Company for details, since it’s well-known how close all fourteen of them are, but the Company is surprisingly tight-lipped on the subject of the relationship between Bilbo and Thorin. Bilbo gets speculative looks from many dwarves, but clearly even rumors aren’t moving from the dwarves into the men of Lake-Town, because the men seem utterly oblivious to any kind of byplay. This, Bilbo decides, is a good thing: the last thing they need is everyone getting in a tizzy about Thorin’s romantic engagements, when there’s so much else to do.

It’s funny, really, because it doesn’t feel to Bilbo like he expected romance to be. He had expected something like the story of Beren and L _ú_ thien, which admittedly he’s only heard in watered-down fragments except for a longer singing of the tale when they were in Rivendell. But this thing between Bilbo and Thorin seems very…correct. Yes, that’s the word, or at least the word Bilbo would use.

It has the same settled feeling that he’d seen between his parents, or other old couples in the Shire. Bilbo remembers his father tidying up after his mother when she left books lying open and face-down on the arms of chairs, and remembers his mother coaxing his father to try lighting fireworks with her or play sword-fighting with Bilbo when he was small. These things were often done with teasing, sly jokes from his father and good puns from his mother, light jabs at habits and customs of the other. Only a few times could Bilbo remember a real fight between the two, and when they fought it was fierce and over quickly. Even on such days, Bilbo could never remember one which did not end with a kiss good-night between the two.

This is how things seem to be between Bilbo and Thorin. They have the measure of each other, and neither is afraid to poke and prod at the other’s flaws, though both are too stubborn to change. It seems that every day Thorin has something “witty” to say about Bilbo’s wistful remembrance of starched shirts or his excitement at a delivery of caraway seeds from lands to the south, serving as a perpetual reminder that there are other important matters to attend to. Meanwhile Bilbo finds an endless supply of ammunition to return fire on the subject of Thorin’s tendency toward grandiose plans—the rebuilding of the Front Gate to be three times its former height and magnificence, an expedition to settle an ancient hold in the Grey Mountains—all of which will come to naught if, as Bilbo reminds Thorin, he cannot manage to restore Erebor to even half its former glory.

And yet, when evening comes, it regularly finds the two of them sitting together smoking a pipe, with Bilbo recounting amusing anecdotes of the day and Thorin listening attentively, or Thorin reminiscing on the past years of his life and Bilbo listening to _him_. It’s a good companionship which Bilbo values above any other treasure on this quest. The longer this goes on, the more certain Bilbo is that this thing with Thorin is what it looks like, and the more certain he is that he is happier than he has ever been.

Fili and Kili have improved by leaps and bounds and are already out of bed well before Thorin. They have been sobered by their brush with death, it seems, and though Kili retains much of his irrepressible energy Fili has a solemn cast to his features and carries himself a bit more heavily. It surprises no one when the young dwarf officially takes his place at Thorin’s side, listening and paying attention to all the business of the kingdom.

One afternoon, Bilbo goes along with Fili and Gloin to inspect a newly-reopened section of living quarters in the mountain. Gloin, who is an expert with of all things ventilation and fire, has been asked to work on the chimneys of the living quarters to ensure that they are still working properly. Just now he’s called a halt so he can inspect a chimney with some odd cracks in it. He ignores Fili and Bilbo entirely, so Bilbo takes the opportunity to chat with Fili a bit.

“I thought you had no interest in ruling, but here you are acting quite responsible,” Bilbo says.

Fili looks up and down the hall thoughtfully. “I don’t think I ever quite knew why I should be responsible until now,” he says. “I never understood this mountain. It was never my home. But it is the home of so many other dwarves, and I nearly died in its defense, so I suppose…I want to be worthy of calling it my home, too.”

“Very wise,” Bilbo says. He claps Fili on the arm. “You’ll make your family proud.”

“I hope so,” Fili says. He smiles at Bilbo. “I’ve made you proud, haven’t I?”

“Quite!” Bilbo is prevented from saying any more by Gloin standing and declaiming loudly on the subject of proper airflow and warning Fili that, should anyone put a fire in this grate, half the mountain will be suffocated. The conversation ends, but Bilbo is surprised that Fili, of all dwarves, wants Bilbo Baggins to be proud of him. He thinks on it long and hard, but Fili never brings it up again.

By the time that Thorin is on the mend enough to stand and walk wearing his heavy gear, much of the living quarters, the front hall, and some of the forges have been reopened. Many of the dwarves from the Iron Hills have left, returning home with Dain, but some remain with intent to stay in Erebor. More of Durin’s Folk from the Blue Mountains and other places where scattered dwarves live have arrived, so there are still many who do not yet have housing within Erebor. But the time has come to make it official, to show the world that the line of Durin is not so easily conquered.

Bilbo is at Thorin’s left hand—Fili, of course, on his right—when Thorin finally enters Erebor as the King Under the Mountain. It’s a solemn moment. Though every present dwarf watches with awe, no one speaks. It seems only right that the whole of the Company enters together, for they are rather the heroes of the whole affair, though the remaining eleven follow behind. The dwarves mass in ranks outside the Front Gate, and Bilbo feels extremely small under the weight of their gaze. Thorin, though, is stern and solemn, almost as though he is alone in this moment.

Before them the entry hall opens wide, and Bilbo winces. Marks of dragonfire still scorch the walls, and they have not yet had time to fix the gouges dragon claws left in the floor. The fallen stone has been cleared away, but the statues remain defaced or destroyed and the once-vaulted ceilings are in complete ruin. As they advance through the hall, Bilbo can only shudder in horror, seeing this through what he imagines to be Thorin’s eyes. Bilbo has seen the progress, but Thorin has not.

At the end of the hall, where the stairs will lead up several levels to the throne, there is a raised dais and it is here that Thorin stops and turns. Bilbo does the same, as the Company arranges itself below, and realizes that every dwarf in the camp has followed them into the hall. It is amazing to see—Bilbo thought there were many dwarves, but they do not even fill this hall from wall to wall. The whole place is silent, every eye on Thorin, waiting for him to speak.

Bilbo looks up at Thorin, wondering—and sees slow fires awakening in Thorin’s eyes. Internally, Bilbo trembles. This is Thorin’s place, the Kingdom Under The Mountain, and this kind of power is the same power as that of gold. It is the same power that drove Thror mad, that nearly broke Thorin.

Thorin looks at the Company, at Fili, at Bilbo. Then he looks at the assembled dwarves. “We have returned to the halls of our ancestors,” he says in a ringing voice. “From this day forward, the Lonely Mountain shall ring with the sound of the hammers of our people. From this day forward, this city shall be defended again by the axes of the dwarves!”

The cheers that break through the assembly are louder than a dragon’s roar. Bilbo can’t help but smile, marveling at this moment. How far they’ve come, from a secret meeting in the cozy dining-room of Bag End to a speech in the halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“New monuments shall be made and the old ones restored,” Thorin goes on, gesturing at the statues. “The mines shall open, that we may make swords and axes from our own iron and show our wealth in garnet and diamond. Our forges shall produce work that shall be treasured by all the races of this land, for the finest craftsmen of Durin’s Folk shall come to Erebor once again!”

The dwarves, it seems, have fallen under Thorin’s spell. Bilbo, too, is awestruck. Thorin seems alight with his own fire, his eyes blazing, and not this time with dragonfire.

“We will fill the marks the dragon left with white marble,” Thorin says, pointing at the gashes left by Smaug’s claws on the floor. “The penalty of greed shall not be forgotten again, not while Erebor remains. And the Arkenstone shall be set amid the tombs of the ancient kings, where it may return to the earth, and rule no more over the fate of the dwarves.”

Bilbo seems to have forgotten how to breathe.

Here Thorin stops for a moment. He observes the assembly and, for a moment, he smiles. “You here are worth more than all the wealth hoarded within this mountain. When your people called upon you, you answered with willing hearts. No king can ask more than that. Your loyalty, your honor, is what shall restore Erebor—what shall restore _our home_ —to glory.”

This time, the cheers shake the mountain.

In the moments of chaos after this pronouncement, Thorin turns to Bilbo, taking his hand. “As for you,” he says, “I would be honored, Bilbo, if you would consent to remain in Erebor until you see it in all its true glory.”

Bilbo squeezes Thorin’s hand tight, or as tight as a hobbit’s hand can squeeze a dwarf’s. “If I know you at all, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo says, “you won’t consider this mountain home again until everything is perfect here.”

“Ah,” Thorin says, “there you are finally wrong about me. I won’t consider this mountain home again until all that I hold dear is safe within its halls again.”

“Am I to believe that I’m among those things you hold dear?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin smiles. He looks down, away from Bilbo, and then back, somber. “I cannot ask you to stay forever,” he says. “I know this. You will miss the Shire, for it is your home as this mountain is mine, and I know what it is to be homesick. I am not so selfish as to keep you here.”

“It’s a bit soon to be talking about forever, isn’t it? We’ve only just begun to restore the mountain at all!” Bilbo sighs. “I told you I would stay until I saw Erebor in glory again and I mean to make good on that promise! Then we can worry about silly things like ‘forever.’”

“As ever, you have twice the common sense I do,” Thorin’s eyes shine as he looks at Bilbo. “Perhaps I _will_ be selfish and keep you here to advise me for the rest of my days.”

“Or perhaps you could come back to the Shire and bother _me_ for the rest of _mine_ ,” Bilbo says, rolling his eyes and trying to keep the smile off his face and keep his pattering heart from showing. “Thorin Oakenshield, you are the most exasperating dwarf I’ve ever met.”

Thorin leans in closer. “And you are the most exasperating hobbit,” he says.

It’s an invitation, that much is clear. Bilbo is required to stand on tiptoes, but—finally—he manages to kiss Thorin, right there in the front hall of Erebor. Since the invention of the kiss, there have been four kisses rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one is the fifth.

“About time!” Bombur says from somewhere behind them.

That’s exactly right.

It is about time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thorin’s mention of Rivendell and Bilbo hearing about his madness is a reference to a deleted scene, part of which appears in the Extended Edition. I’ve pulled quotes from an interview with Richard Armitage on theonering.net to describe it:
> 
> Interviewer: _I love the scene in the Extended Edition of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey where Thorin overhears the reservations which Gandalf and Elrond are discussing about the dragon sickness; that Thror and Thrain both succumbed, and how do we know that Thorin’s not going to succumb…_
> 
> RA: _Actually, that was at the end of a much longer scene, which I played with Bilbo on those steps, where I talked about where I was born, and seeing fireflies on the roof; being born in darkness, underground; and then it cuts to that overheard conversation._
> 
> Soooooo apparently, in the middle of AUJ (after the trolls, notably), we got Thorin just absolutely baring his soul to Bilbo…which puts the moment of Bilbo trying to turn back, and then the moment after the goblin mines, AND THE HUG, into a whole new light.


End file.
